


The Mind It's Own Place

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, M/M, Prophetic Visions, mildly inspired by Supernatural but not really, non-religious angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:39:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you are an angel,” Len says thoughtfully and hops onto the bleachers. “How’s that working out for you?”</p>
<p>The angel collapses back into an angry slouch. “Not too good,” he says with a scowl. “Humans are weird.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mind It's Own Place

**Author's Note:**

> Response to tumblr prompt: Fic Prompt: Coldwave, wing!fic.

Len knew the gig was rotten before he ever went on it. 

He called his grandfather and begged him to take Lisa; the old man was nearly bedridden, from age and illness and his son's neglect, but he agreed to come pick her up. Probably because of the sheer panic in Len's voice - Len couldn't explain why the heist was so bad, why he was so sure it would end badly, but there was something about the plan that stunk to high heavens. 

It goes even worse than he thought, possibly because he underestimated his father's cunning and ruthlessness. 

He ends up hanging from his father's arm as his father goes on about the decline of society and all that crap, how he, a retired cop, happened by luck to be in the area and catch one of the youthful gang members that had attempted this robbery (never mind that Lewis had headed the gang and Len was the youngest by at least ten years), and lo and behold, the little miscreant was his own son. But not to worry, Lewis tells the security men through his vile facade of virtue, he had no intention of letting Len get away with it. No, Len would face the full might of the justice system to pay for his crimes.

Lewis goes home with a write-up in the local paper about his selfless heroism, and Len goes to juvie. 

He'd probably have died there, too - _Dad will be pleased_ , he remembers thinking blearily as he curls up on the ground to try to redirect the other boys' kicks from his head to somewhere less important like his arms or legs, _he'll be able to sue the city for negligence and settle for a mint and it may be the only thing I’ve ever done in my whole life that will make Dad happy with me_ \- when he's rescued by an angel.

He's not sure how else to describe it.

It's probably the concussion talking, but he would have sworn – he thinks he saw – 

_Wings._

But surely it’s impossible. 

He spends a few days in the infirmary before being let back out into the crowd. When that happens, he tries (for once) not to make too many waves and goes out hunting for the angel.

He finds him, big and broad for a teenager, perched out on the bleachers in the fenced-in yard where the juvie kids were supposed to play and exercise the badness out of them, at least in theory. In reality, the social dynamics were the same as any schoolyard at recess – or a bunch of hyenas on the savannah, since that was about the same. 

Len hadn’t exactly impressed anyone with his marvelous first act, comprising of getting his ass kicked on his first day in, so he slinks around the edges of the hunting grounds with an eye towards getting a read on the crowd. The angel, on the other hand, is the sort of guy that nobody messed with: intimidatingly large with the sort of glint in his eye that scared people as much as it attracted them. In high school he could easily be one of the jocks, but more than likely was one of the loners because people can sense crazy a mile away.

Even in juvie, people are leaving him alone, and that’s saying something.

Len goes straight to him.

The angel turns and looks at him. He looks normal, now, no wings, nothing, but Len’s not in the habit of doubting himself. Well, not after having quizzed the nurse about the likelihood of visual hallucinations as a result of concussions and come to a satisfactory conclusion.

“You saved me,” Len says.

The angel grunts.

Len stares at him levelly. “Why?”

“Wanted to,” he replies shortly.

“Why’d you want to?”

“No reason.”

“Are you an angel?”

Len figures he can get away with claiming that was sarcastic if he needs to, but he doesn’t need to: the angel’s head jerks a little and his eyes narrow with suspicion for a second, his back straightening, before he forcefully clears his throat and says in possibly the least convincing way possible, “Where’d you get a crazy idea like that?”

“So you _are_ an angel,” Len says thoughtfully and hops onto the bleachers. “How’s that working out for you?”

The angel collapses back into an angry slouch. “Not too good,” he says with a scowl. “Humans are weird.”

“How’s that?” Len asks, playing it casual. Not every day you meet an angel, but Len figures it’s like meeting a celebrity: you try to be cool and not embarrass yourself by being creepy about them. Just treat them like anybody else. 

“Dunno,” the angel says. “How’d you know I was an angel?”

“Well, you’re a shitty liar, for one.” The angel gives him a look. “Body language,” Len clarifies.

The angel sighs. “There’s not a lot of lying where I come from,” he acknowledges. “When you’re used to communicating in thought, it’s hard to pick up the whole body language shtick.”

“Also,” Len says when it seems like that’s all the angel has to say, “I saw your wings.”

“During the fight, right?” the angel says. “Harder to keep them in when I’m focusing on something else.”

“How come nobody else noticed, then?” Len demands. He’d wondered. That had been point one in favor of hallucinating. “They would’ve said something.”

“They aren’t you,” the angel says with another shrug. 

“Me?”

“You’re a prophet, you see things,” the angel says dismissively. 

Len gapes at him.

“It’ll come back to bite you in the ass later on, but you’re good for now,” the angel offers, as if _that’s_ the problem.

“I think you might have the wrong guy,” Len says. “I ain’t a prophet. For one thing, I _don’t_ see things, and for another, I’m a _criminal_.”

“You aren’t too read up on the lives of prophets, are you?” the angel says smugly.

Len crosses his arms and glares. “So I’m a bad Jew, so sue me.”

“Fair enough,” the angel says with a shrug. “Religion’s all the same to me; we're just the guys with the wings. But you _are_ a prophet, that much is true. We can tell.”

“And you’re, what, here to protect me?” Len says with a sneer.

“Yes.”

“What, seriously?” Len’s eyes narrow. “Is this some weird angel mandate?”

The angel looks uncomfortable.

“ _Don’t_ try to lie.”

“No,” the angel admits. “I just figured it sounded right, you know?”

“Aren’t you guys just messengers? Don’t you just follow orders?”

“It’s complicated,” the angel says, scowling. “I don’t follow anybody’s orders right now, but I still want to do…I don’t know, something. Need a job to keep me from going spare. Protecting a prophet sounds decent enough.”

“I ain’t a prophet, I’m tell you, you got that bit wrong. But why’d you come for me here?”

“I didn’t,” the angel says, blinking. “I saw you when you were about to die and decided to take on your protection as my mission.”

“You telling me an angel got sent to juvie? For what?”

“Arson.”

“ _Arson?!_ ”

The angel coughs. “Fire is my cardinal element, and destruction my purpose, but humans seem to object to me exercising it.”

“What exactly did you do as an angel, exactly?” Len says, realization dawning. He’s been an idiot: thinking of angels like they were in Christian media, all fluffy wings and bullshit like that. If this is an angel come for him – and he still doesn’t believe that – then it’s an angel of his religion’s description: the burning sword, the murderers of first-born sons. 

The shifty expression on the angel’s face confirms it.

“Fuck,” Len says, putting his head in his hands. “You’re going to need a lot of help if you want to stay in the human world.”

“You’ll help me?” the angel says hopefully.

Len thinks about it for a minute. He doesn’t agree to care for people lightly – indeed, the only person he’s made that vow to before is Lisa. But this is an _angel_.

“Sure,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief at his own stupidity. “My name’s Leonard Snart, but you should call me Len.”

“Call me Mick,” the angel offers with a happy smile.

Len’s eyes narrow. “Ain’t that short for Michael?”

The angel blinks innocently at him. “Is it?”

Len is going to regret this, he knows he is. “Whatever,” he says gruffly. “You can stick around. You scare off the hoi polloi and I’ll teach you how to lie, how’s that?”

“Sounds good,” the angel – _Mick_ – says. “Don’t worry. Even if you don’t, I’ll keep you safe.”

With that, he spreads his wings, and Len’s eyes are dazzled.

\----------------------------------------

“ _Mick!_ ” Len says icily. “Watch where you toss that lighter.”

“It was almost out,” Mick sulks, putting his feet up on the table. He flares his wings out behind him for balance.

“Get your feathers outta my face.”

“Touchy today, aren’t we?”

Len rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to figure out how to knock off a fucking speedster demon who may or may not be from _another dimensional plane_. So I’m a little stressed; gimme a break.”

“Prophet powers on the fritz again?” Mick says sympathetically.

Len grumbles, gives up the plans on the table as a lost cause, and throws himself onto the couch next to Mick. “I hate supernaturals,” he whines. He knows he’s whining; he just doesn’t care. “They mess everything up.”

“Psst, you’d get bored without the Flash.”

“The Flash hasn’t yet realized that all the Particle Accelerator did was activate throwback Nephilim genes,” Len says dryly. “He’s good, but he ain’t _that_ good. Metahumans my _ass_.”

“And such a fine ass it is,” Mick says agreeably. Sadly, he probably doesn’t even mean that in a sexual sense. Angels are painfully literal sometimes, and Mick usually only realizes it’s flirting time when Len explicitly points it out to him. Or makes with the grabby-hands, either works. “You’d still be sad if he weren’t around.”

“I am enjoying the supervillain thing,” Len admits. “Even if the prophecy business is probably cheating.”

“You are the only prophet I’ve ever met who uses his abilities to read tomorrow’s papers for tips on crimes to commit,” Mick says with a smirk, like he wasn’t right there along Len when he (rather painfully) corralled his emerging visions into something more manageable and useful. “So you don’t get to complain the few times you get a ‘time to save the world’ vision straight between the eyes.”

“Oh, I get to complain,” Len says mulishly. “I’m not enough of an asshole to _ignore_ those visions, but damn if I don’t at least maintain my right to _complain_.”

“Whatever makes you happy.” 

“You’re patronizing me again,” Len grumbles. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that you need to get over your aversion to important visions and tune your brain back to prophet radio till you get an answer on this Zoom question,” Mick says. “This isn’t news, Snart. I’ve been saying it for the last few days.”

“I know, I know.” Len sighs. He really didn’t enjoy it when his visions had first manifested – there was screaming and incurable migraines and eyeball bleeding and he didn’t even know the latter was a thing that could happen outside of horror flicks – and he’d been so happy when he’d managed to get them under control. The idea of unleashing them now was unpleasant even if it would get them closer to defeating the man who humiliated the Flash.

Preferably without the end-of-the-world-news that seemed to accompany leaving it unresolved.

He glances sidelong at Mick. “Can we kidnap Cisco again?” Len says hopefully. “He’s a prophet too –”

“For the last fucking time,” Mick growls. “He is _not_ a prophet. He’s a clairvoyant. There’s a _difference_. He’s present-tense, you’re future-tense. He vibes, you see.”

“I’m Captain Cold now,” Len says. “Can’t it be something like ‘he vibes, I chill’?”

Mick smacks Len upside the head with a twitch of a wing.

Len probably deserved that.

“So, what should we do?” he asks, lounging in an increasingly horizontal manner in Mick’s general direction. Mick grunts and pulls him down so that Len’s head is on his lap. Perfect. “Supernaturals mess up the visions, you know that.”

“I was thinking something along the lines of Twenty Questions,” Mick says. 

Mick loves that game. Lisa introduced it to him the first time the three of them went on a roadtrip and it joined his pantheon of Things Mick Likes, a dread and fearful thing of awe mostly consisting of fire, Len, and (oddly enough) baking muffins. Not anything else, just muffins in infinite variety. Ever since Len’s abilities manifested and he became the subject of these games of questions, though, Len’s been notably less enthused about it than Mick is.

Though he still kicks Mick’s ass at it every time they are on a road trip. Prison van guards _hate_ them.

“Haven’t we already tried that?” he asks instead. 

Mick just looks at him.

Len sighs and waves a hand for Mick to continue. For his part, he focuses on that strange _feeling_ that thunders behind his eyes when he’s not paying attention, that crackling awareness, that telephone line to Time itself…it always feels good when he taps into it for the first time, nice and comfortable, like he’s doing something right for once. He could lose himself in his ability, do this all day and all night, and he'd go insane within a week. Mick has had to drag him out of it sometimes - it feels so good...

“Are we going to lose?” Mick asks.

“No,” Len replies, feeling it in his bones. He wishes that that would be enough, but he’s learned to his misfortune that ‘not going to lose’ and ‘what you lose in the process of winning’ are two very, _very_ different questions.

“Are we going to win?”

“Yes _and_ no; congrats, Mick, you got an indeterminate future on your second try! You win a prize.”

Mick pokes him in the shoulder and glares a little. Len’s only consolation is that when playing Twenty Questions, Mick limits his speech to the questions – he says it’s cheating, otherwise.

“Are we going to be part of the group that wins?” he asks instead.

“Yes,” Len says immediately. 

“Are they other hunters?”

“No.”

“Other supernaturals?”

“No.”

“Lisa?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone other than Lisa?”

“Yes.”

“Do we know them?”

“Yes.”

“Have we fought them?”

“Yes,” Len says, lulled by the easy back-and-forth into spitting out answers. Then his eyes go wide as he processes who might be likely to be on that team of winners with him. “Oh, you have got to be _kidding_ me…”

Mick grins. “Is the Flash on that team?” he asks innocently.

“ _Yes_ ,” Len says, pouting. 

“Do we team up with him?”

“Yes.” Len doesn’t want to be a hero and no one can make him, except apparently the _overall will of the universe incarnate_. Boo. 

“Do we team up with his crew?”

“Yes,” Len says sulkily.

“Is this necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Will we be facing Zoom in his demon form?”

“Yes, _ugh_.”

“Will the Flash be facing Zoom going demon too?”

“…yes.” Len feels vaguely bad for predicting that; Barry Allen’s a nice kid and deserves better than facing a demon. Though, in fairness, he’d already had his back broken by the guy, so he’s already involved.

Mick tilts his head a little to the side, thinking. “…do we need to disclose what he’s facing?”

“Yes,” Len says, blurting the answer out without thinking about it, then groans. “Wait, we do? Fuck it, we do. It’s essential. Fuck _everything_.”

“That essential, huh?” Mick says with a grin. “Someone pushing it?”

“Yeah,” Len says grumpily as the answer comes to him. “Did you know there’s an archeon of _speed_?”

Mick barks out a laugh. “Really? The Speed Force is behind the speedsters? I should’ve known.”

Len rolls his eyes. “That’s a sentence, not a question.”

“Damn,” Mick says, scowling. “Well, I’d hit twenty anyway, if you count that really.”

“Which of course you do,” Len says, shaking his head. “So what do we do?”

“Guess we need to pay a visit to our local hero squad,” Mick says, sounding pleased at the thought of the almost guaranteed ensuing mayhem. “C’mon, Lenny; there’s no good putting it off.”

Len grumbles, mostly because he’s just gotten comfortable. “I guess,” he says, sitting up with a sigh, feeling the start of a truly _vicious_ headache, and also very likely a nosebleed, just like he always gets after using his ability. It feels so good to use, and so bad to stop, but extended exposure causes brain damage, how fun. He'll pop a few aspirin and be done with hit. “Grab your gear and let’s go.”

Mick gets up with a savage grin.

“Hey, Mick,” Len says lazily. Mick turns to look at him. “How long do you think it’ll take Ramon to realize that we’ve souped up his heat gun with your flaming sword?”

Mick laughs. “About the time he realizes I can _literally_ go to absolute hot,” he says with satisfaction, patting the gun and heading over to grab his jacket. “Instead of the bullcrap he was spouting. I’ll show him hot.”

“No punching holes in the universe as a demonstration!” Len calls after Mick.

“Why do you spoil all my fun?” Mick calls back.

Len smirks.

Team Flash isn’t going to know what hit them.

\------------------------------

They are very nearly too late. 

The Flash team launches a premature attack on Zoom – Len _hates_ how his abilities are thrown off by the presence of the supernatural – and Mick and Len barely get there in time to keep the Flash from getting his face ripped off by an angry demon.

Len hits him with his cold gun despite knowing it will do little damage to the demon itself. Luckily, it’s a speedster demon, and speedsters by their nature hate the cold. 

“Thanks for the save,” the Flash gasps, rubbing his bruised neck and staring up at Len as Len gets the demon to back off with a steady stream of cold. 

“Don’t mention it,” Len says, glancing down at him for a second. “Ever. Really. _Please_.”

Barry grins, sitting up as the bruises around his neck fade. “What, scared of being dragged into being a hero?”

“I have spent literally thirty years of my life trying to avoid that fate,” Len says grimly. “People keep trying. If they heard I helped out, I’d never heard the end of it.”

He’s not kidding, either. A living prophet that isn’t utterly insane is like catnip to the supernatural hunter community; if they ever found out about _Mick_ , then he’d be mobbed at all hours. America’s a primarily Christian-denomination country; regardless of the inapplicability of any form of religious doctrine to the actual winged species, people get weird about angels. 

“You’re…serious, actually,” Barry says, frowning at him. “Really? Is that a problem you have?”

Barry is painfully adorable sometime. It’s not often that Len is encouraged to join the good fight by someone who honestly just thinks he should, rather than about how useful Len would be. 

“Don’t worry about it, Scarlet,” Len says, pulling up his gun and watching the demon start to shake off the ice. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get out of here.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Barry says, hopping to his feet. “Um. Speaking of which, mine seems to have failed, so I don’t suppose you have a plan?”

“It’s less of a plan and more of person, really,” Len says.

The demon has just gotten its bearings back when Mick dives down at it from the air, tackling it to the ground. 

“ _Wings_ ,” Barry says, mouth falling open in shock.

Len has a brief moment of nostalgia for the first time he saw Mick’s wings; he remembers having much the same reaction. 

“Oh my god, why does Heatwave have _wings_?”

Barry does recover quicker, though. He _is_ older, though, and a speedster.

Still…

“Well, Scarlet,” Len drawls, “I expect that’s because he’s an angel. I mean, hadn’t you noticed?”

The demon throws Mick off, hissing and spitting, and Mick pulls out his burning sword. He hadn’t had it when he’d first met Len, or Len might’ve believed him about the whole angel of destruction thing faster; no, Len had hunted that fucker down to a meteorite kept in a private security vault and given it to Mick for their tenth anniversary. He still remembers that heist as being particularly terrible, but Mick had been so happy to have a sword back in hand.

“Holy crap,” Barry says, shaking his head. “Wait, Cisco’s crazy theory about the potential religious associations regarding metahumans are _right?_ ”

“Trust the clairvoyant to guess right; it’s usually a good idea,” Len says, charmed despite himself. The Flash team is so _cute_. You don’t meet neophyte hunters like this every day. “And it’s not so much religious as it is supernatural. They’re totally different.”

“So, like, crosses won’t help?”

“Given that I’m Jewish? No.”

Barry’s mouth opens for the inevitable ‘oh, you’re Jewish? I didn’t know’ line that people inevitably spout out no matter how inappropriate the moment, but luckily at that point Zoom lets off an explosion of dark energy by vibrating too hard, and Mick is thrown over to them, catching himself with his wings and scowling at the two of them as he floats above the earth. “You guys gonna chat or are you gonna help?”

Len taps his fingers to his mouth. “Well, I don’t know, I was enjoying watching you get your ass handed to you by the demon so _much_ –”

“Zoom is a _demon_?”

“No shit,” Mick says, beating his wings to stay in midair.

“And you’re _actually_ an angel?”

Len’s tempted to echo Mick’s sentiment, but honestly, Len is impressed that Barry is at least willing to believe their story; that’ll make this whole thing easier. Also, he bet Mick that it would be less than an hour. Judging by the scowl on Mick’s face, he’s acknowledging an early defeat. 

“Fucking hell, you couldn’t have been a bit more stubborn this time?” Mick bitches. “I had twenty bucks riding on you taking two hours to listen.”

“This isn’t over!” Zoom howls and disappears in a burst of blue electricity.

“Well, of course it isn’t over,” Len says blankly at the blank space that Zoom was inhabiting. “We haven’t kicked your ass out of our city yet. Scarlet, we should go somewhere private to talk about our little demon problem. Preferably somewhere we won’t get arrested.”

“Uh, right,” Barry says, shaking his head. “How’re you so sure we’re going to win?”

“Len’s a prophet,” Mick says before Len can shush him. Len glares at him. “What?”

“You didn’t have to _tell him_.”

“No, no,” Flash says, starry-eyed. “I want to know _everything_.”

“Well,” Len says, holstering his cold gun. “It all started a long, long time ago – on a dimensional plane far, far away –”


End file.
